


You Can't Fix This

by Bennyhatter



Category: The Walking Dead
Genre: Broken Daryl, Daryl Has Issues, Dwight is a disgusting fuck, Gen, I'm so sorry, Major character death - Freeform, Rape/Non-con Elements, So don't read if you don't want spoiled, Spoilers, aftermath of rape, boypussy!Daryl, brutalized character, but not very much touched upon, i am so upset, i hate myself so much for this, i need all the hugs, scarred character, supposed to be directly after s6e15, technical suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6399103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwight does more than just shoot Daryl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Fix This

**Author's Note:**

> You guys I can't even. I am so upset about the last episode. And then this hit me and I was like 'what no' but it wouldn't leave me alone. So I wrote it. And it's horrible. And I need to go and lay down and sob forever now. I don't even care if there's no connection between Dwight and Negan. I'm pretending there is for this.
> 
> Bye.

They’d gotten there in time, depending on who you asked. They saved Daryl, and Michonne—Glenn and Rosita. They’d stopped anyone else from dying and took some revenge of their own, and no one had thought anything of it until Aaron had moved to check Daryl’s shoulder and his friend had screamed and swung. The archer had knocked Alexandria’s recruiter flat on his back, blood dripping from his broken nose, and Rick had been on his way over to try and manage the situation when he’d seen the bite mark.

Red and angry, it had darkened the side of Daryl’s throat, almost completely hidden by his longer hair until he moved just right. After he sees it, Rick sees the rest of them—knows there are even more hidden beneath his friend’s clothes but knows too that he can’t assess the extent of the damage until Daryl is calm and they can get him somewhere safe.

It takes Michonne to get the feral archer into the RV, and no one comments on the way Daryl forces himself into the farthest corner from everyone else and sits on the floor with his arms propped on his knees, his hands limp between them, and stares at the ground without seeing anything. He won’t even let them wrap his shoulder—flinches and makes the most horrible sounds whenever anyone but Michonne or Maggie get too close to him. Even Carol has to keep her distance, broken and crying quietly the whole way back to Alexandria; desperate to help but knowing there’s nothing she can do.

Rick continuously glances in the rear view mirror the whole way back, seeing the top of a shaggy head of hair as it bows forward to hide a face he knows can hide even the worst of pains with the smallest amount of effort. Now, it’s almost like Daryl doesn’t have the strength to hide anything, so he uses his hair to do it for him, letting the curtains fall in place even though they’re fragile and easily moved.

Gabriel opens the gates for them, silent and serene as he watches the RV roll in. Once they’re secure, he approaches to give Rick his report. He’s not in the mood right now, and shakes his head once for the priest to see before turning to watch Maggie quietly coax Daryl off of the grimy floor. She doesn’t touch him, makes sure to move with exaggerated care and always keep her hands in sight. When Daryl spots the gun at her hip, he whines like a beaten dog and shoves himself back against the flimsy wall so hard it shakes.

“Easy, Daryl, it’s just me,” she croons, slowly removing the gun and laying it on the table before shifting so she’s farther away from it. “You know I won’t hurt you. C’mon, let’s get you to the infirmary and get you cleaned up, okay? We’re gonna wait until everyone’s off the RV, and then you’n me, we’re gonna see about gettin’ you fixed up. Sound like a plan?”

Rick doesn’t like this, doesn’t want to let Daryl out of his sight, but when Maggie gives him a pleading, pointed look, he grits his teeth and follows the others out onto the street. They all back away, but no one leaves—giving their friend the space he obviously needs but hovering just in case they can help. Glenn is tense, like he can’t tell who he should be more worried about, Maggie or Daryl. Resting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, Rick offers him comfort and watches the door of the RV as it swings open.

Maggie backs out first, her hands up and always, always in sight. Daryl follows slowly, limping down the steps and halting to blink when the sun blinds him for a moment. He hovers just out of the RV, shoulders tight and curled in on himself. Rick hears Maggie make a gentle, soothing noise, and watches as the archer takes a hesitate, careful step. He can’t hide his wince, and Rick tries very hard not to react physically to the sight of his friend in pain.

“Everyone, go on home,” he murmurs eventually. Multiple gazes snap toward him, mouths dropping open to protest. “There’s nothing we can do right now, you know there isn’t.” Shaking his head, he runs a hand back through his hair and tries not to notice the way Daryl flinches like he’s expecting a punch, even though there’s at least fifteen feet between them.

“We can’t just abandon him,” Carol whispers, her eyes red-rimmed and her hands shaking. Rick resists the urge to remind her that that’s exactly what she fucking did. She abandoned them, left with no warning other than a fucking letter, and honestly thought they wouldn’t come after her. Daryl hadn’t even known she was gone, which is probably a good thing, although considering what happened, Rick doesn’t believe that there can be anything good about this whole shitty mess other than the fact that none of their people have died today.

Some of them aren’t whole anymore either, though, and his eyes follow Daryl as he limps after Maggie, letting her lead him and looking around like he’s never seen Alexandria before, or he’s expecting an ambush from within the walls of a community that offers only safety.

 _What happened to you?_ he thinks, running a hand across his chin and jaw. Part of him already suspects he knows exactly what happened in the two days Daryl has been gone, because he’s still a cop, and he knows what he’s seeing. He recognizes the fear and the blank, broken stare, even if he’s having a hard time equating them to everything he knows of Daryl. The archer is a survivor, he always has been, but something happened with Dwight that has damaged him more than he’s showing.

That’s what has Rick the most worried. What’s hiding beneath the fractured surface, and will any of them be well-enough equipped to handle it when the gavel inevitably falls?

 

\--

 

Daryl tries his hardest not to jerk away when Maggie cleans the wound—or comes within three feet of him in general. _This is Maggie, this is your family_ , he keeps reminding himself, but he still flinches and twitches and has to grip the edges of the table to keep himself from punching his friend. It’s not the gunshot wound that hurts the most—it’s the wet, torn agony between his legs, the feeling of blood and cum on his thighs that _reminds_ him with every shift. It’s the shattered fragments of his psyche that slice him to ribbons when he tries to gather it back up and piece it back into some semblance of normalcy.

“What happened, Daryl?” Maggie whispers, so soft and sweet and desperate to help.

It’s not her fault she asks the wrong question.

The table grinds across the floor with a loud, ringing screech when he shoves himself away from it, away from her, and he can’t stop his agonized whine when he moves wrong and feels more wetness trickle down toward his knee. He stumbles, and Maggie catches him without thinking, and he hears her horrified gasp when she looks down. He looks down, too, and then closes his eyes in shame so he doesn’t have to see the dark, wet stain along the inside of his pants—the telling proof that no one has noticed until he gave Maggie a reason to.

“Daryl-”

“Leave it,” he rasps, pushing her away as gently as he can stand to. “Leave it, ‘m fine.”

“Daryl, you have to let me see-”

“Ain’t gotta do shit!” he snaps, putting more comforting space between them and digging his nails into his palms. “Said leave it, Mags. Fuck off.”

Maggie lifts her chin and crosses her arms, and he can see some of his blood smeared on her hands. It makes him twitch, makes him feel lower than dirt, to have sullied something so good with his disgusting existence. He’s already turning to walk away, not even bothering to pick up his shirt, because he knows all of the hidden parts of Alexandria. He knows how to get home without being seen.

Footsteps hurry closer behind him, a small, steady hand shutting the door firmly when he tries to yank it open, and Daryl whirls around. He can’t stop the cry of pain from doing so, too fast and too angry with a body battered and bruised by unforgiving hands.

_Well would you look at that, boys. Looks like he’s more of a bitch than I first thought._

Daryl grits his teeth against the memories, but the physical reminders aren’t so easy to ignore. He’s so tired, hurting so badly. He wants to curl up somewhere and lick his wounds and not be fucking _looked at_ or _touched_ until he’s got some semblance of control over his own damn emotions again. Right now he wishes Merle was here, only he really doesn’t, because his brother would not at all be helpful right now. He would sneer and jeer and call Daryl a bitch, _just like Dwight_ , and oh god why is it so hard to breathe? It shouldn’t be this hard to breathe.

“Daryl, no, you’re okay. I’m sorry, I just want to make sure you’re okay. We love you, Daryl, you know we do. Breathe for me, okay? In real deep, out nice and slow. Can you do that?”

Maggie is talking to him, he knows she is, but it’s like he’s hearing her from underwater. It’s rushing to fill his mouth and pooling in his lungs, making them ache and seize as he gasps raggedly and claws at the wall beside him, struggling to find purchase like that will do him any good. There are hands on him, light and careful— _not large and hard and mean, yanking his thighs open_ —and Daryl hisses as he slides down the wall; sobs when his ends up on the hard ground with a firm thump and knocks his head into the plaster to try and redirect the pain. Maggie is crooning at him, wordless and soothing, as she tries to help him back up.

Daryl finds his feet, the world still muted and distant as he lets himself be led by Maggie— _Maggie who is kind, and good. She’s your friend, let her help you._

There’s a softer voice, afraid and shaking, that whispers, _But then she’ll see._

It’s too late now, because he’s being coaxed back onto the table, helped into laying down, and he rolls his head to look at Maggie, his bangs hiding his eyes acting as the only measure of defense he has left. When she moves to unbuckle his pants, he flinches away.

“Can do it m’damn self,” he whispers, feeling too tired and defeated as he tries to realign the world, tries to combat the panic and everything else still swirling through his veins, pushed by his beating heart to every last inch of himself. Shaking, calloused fingers undo the button and lower the zipper— _it’s not him it’s not them you’re safe breathe._ He lifts his hips a little, grinding his teeth through the pain, and works his pants and boxers down as quickly as he can. The material is a little stiff from the blood that’s already dried, ripping hairs out along the way, and he has to stop as soon as the material is just above his knees. Partly it’s because it hurts too much to hunch and get it down any further. It’s also partly because of Maggie’s gasp when she finally sees what Daryl has taken so many pains to hide.

“Lay down, Daryl, please. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Ain’t like there’s much left to hurt,” he mutters, closing his eyes in shame when he feels Maggie press a damp cloth between his legs to wipe the blood away from his thighs and his fucking _cunt_. Like he didn’t have enough shit to deal with as a kid. Had to be a literal pussy, and boy, didn’t that just give his daddy all the ammunition in the world to have a go at him. Gave Merle plenty, too, and gave Dwight all the fucking reason he needed.

“I need to see how much damage there is, Daryl. I need to make sure.”

Fuck pain. Daryl sits bolt upright, shoving her hands away and biting back the sounds that want to spill free. “Ain’t doin’ shit,” the archer snarls, scrambling to pull his pants back up as he swings his legs over the side of the table and stands quickly. “Ain’t no fuckin’ damsel in distress. Been through way worse shit.”

Only he hasn’t, and Maggie knows it. She doesn’t call him out on it, though, just bites her lip and looks very hard like she’s trying not to cry. A hand flutters against her stomach, and Daryl focuses on that so that he doesn’t have to focus on anything in relation to himself.

“S’wrong?”

 

\--

 

Rick finds Daryl standing on the porch of an empty house, fingering the strap of his crossbow. His hair is still damp from his shower, and he looks worlds better even though there are still dark, angry bruises along his throat and down his arms, ending in vivid, ruinous circles around his wrists. He’s hiding, a patchwork mask in place that leaves his features carefully smooth but shows little cracks and tears if one knows where to look. Rick approaches him slowly, remembering how Maggie moved and trying not to cause any alarm.

The fact that Daryl tenses as soon as he’s within four feet is not at all promising, but Rick tries to ignore it as he shifts back subtly, his hands relaxed at his sides—in easy view—and his hip bare of his gun.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks quietly, looking up at Daryl and hating that his friend won’t meet his eyes. He’s ashamed of what happened, of what he probably feels like he _let_ happen, and that’s just absolute bullshit to Rick. Daryl didn’t ask for anything Dwight did to him. He didn’t ask to be shot in the shoulder, or brutalized, or whatever else they might have done.

“Like I got hit by a baseball bat. How the fuck d’ya think I’m feelin’?” Daryl snaps. Rick tries not to take it personally, tries to remind himself that this is how the redneck reacts to pain and hurt. It’s all he knows how to do, and it’s why he went out in the first place—to hunt Dwight down and make him pay for what he’d done to Denise. Tara isn’t back yet, so she still doesn’t know, and Rick doesn’t know how any of them are going to explain this whole thing to her. There’s another thing he already knows Daryl will blame himself for, and he wants to be frustrated, he wants to make Daryl _see_ how good he is, how much he means to them all, but he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to do that without making everything worse.

Daryl is trembling so faintly he almost hadn’t noticed, watching Rick from the corner of his eye like he’s expecting him to lunge, and that’s just not right. Rick would never, and Daryl _knows_ that. Whatever Dwight did— _you know what he did stop fooling yourself—_ has broken the archer in a way he’s struggling not to show.

Rick doesn't know what to do here. He doesn't know how to fix this. Years of being a cop, of seeing countless victims, and he's not at all prepared for this aftermath. He has his calm, but he never had Shane's knack for soothing anyone back from the brink of shattering.

Daryl isn't just anyone, though. He's _more_ , and Rick has to fix this but he doesn't know where to _start._

“Daryl, please, I need you to talk to me.” Earnest and hopeful, Rick steps forward and reaches out to lay his hand on his friend’s uninjured shoulder. He should be more prepared for the violent reaction that follows, but he’s not.

"Don't fuckin' touch me!" the archer screams, wide-eyed and wild, baring his teeth like a cornered wolf and clenching his fists like he's about to swing. The abrasions on his wrists are like a slap to the face, dark red and raw and mirrored by the bruises that mar his throat and jaw—marks of misplaced possession and pain that trail to his damaged shoulder and the gauze that isn’t quite hidden by his sleeveless shirt.

Fury fills Rick at the sight of the blood-spotted bandages, at the knowledge of what Dwight has done even if they both try to pretend otherwise. It's Joe all over again, the Claimers and their savagery, only none of them left handprint-shaped bruises across flesh that never deserved it. None of them broke Daryl in a way his father never could, in a way Rick isn't so sure can ever be fixed because he doesn’t know how deep the damage goes.

"Daryl," he whispers, soft and soothing, and his friend snarls at him, his blue eyes dark and vacant as he hunkers down against the front wall of the house and claws at his own head.

"Don't touch me, get off, get away," he whines, ripping strands of hair from his scalp, and suddenly he's sobbing—big, harsh, ugly moans as he shakes his head and twitches like he's having a seizure. "No, no, no, get off get out get _away_ , don't, please."

Rick bites his lip until it bleeds and crouches down to guard his friend as he falls to pieces, the image reminiscent of glass breaking against an unforgiving ground—shattering in a way that can be mended with skill and care, but will never again be perfectly whole and unblemished. There will be ugly scars across the surface that reach all the way through, the foundations rocky and weakened in the face of another disaster.

That poses a problem, because Daryl is already a canvas of scars and breaks, and there’s no guarantee that he can be fixed this time when there’s so little left that hasn’t already been mended before. Rick is still desperate to try, keeping his distance but making himself seem as unthreatening as possible, his hands flat against the ground as he croons softly and whispers things he’s not even entirely paying attention to.

“It’s me, Daryl, it’s Rick. I’ve got you, c’mon, you’re okay. They’re never gonna hurt you again, I promise. We took care of them, remember? They’re all dead. Every single last one of them.”

It had been a bloody and violent shootout, one that would have made Rick and his fellow officers chuckle back in the old world, because things like that only happened in movies. Those men and women are all dead now, and the world may as well be one never-ending horror show.

“Breathe, okay? Can you do that for me? Look, I’m backing up, okay, I’ll give you as much space as you need, but I need you to breathe, Daryl.”

The hunter sobs for breath, curling in on himself even further. Rick is about to go and find help, because he doesn’t know what to do, when suddenly it all just _stops_. Daryl slumps back against the wall, his head lolling to the side, and he looks at Rick with hooded, blank eyes.

“Daryl?” he asks warily, wondering what this could possibly be—what calm in the center of a raging hurricane might be taking place in front of him. Will they get a moment of peace before a renewed destruction? Daryl is a tornado of emotions right now, liable to take down everything in his path, and those left behind will probably never recover because Daryl Dixon is a force of nature in his own right; powerful and strong even when there’s no feasible reason to be. Rick has seen him kill walkers and comfort others in the span of a few heartbeats, that wild nature of his giving way to a softness that no one had ever expected to see.

“M'fine,” the hunter rasps, pushing himself up from the unforgiving porch and hardly wincing as he moves—like he suddenly can’t feel anything anymore. “Go home, Rick.”

“Only if you come, too,” Rick says, and he’s not trying to challenge the other man. He just knows that leaving Daryl by himself right now is the worst thing he can do. “We can try and help you, Daryl. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“Go through what, Rick?”

It’s painful that Daryl doesn’t even sound angry anymore. He just sounds dead, like all of the life has been snuffed out of him, and he’s barely got the strength to hold his head up the way he’s always been able to. It hangs slightly, his bangs tumbling forward again, and Rick sees the way dark strands trail across the bite, partially hiding it from view.

“Anything. We’re a family, you know that. We’re here for you, no matter what.”

 

\--

 

Daryl tries to snort derisively, but it comes out as more of a puff of wispy air. “You can’t help me,” he says, turning away even though he’s got nowhere to go but over the railing. The house he’d picked is empty, the door locked, and Rick is between him and the steps. He knows the man—his _friend_ —would move if he told him to, but he can’t find the words within himself. He’s so damn tired, so fucking done with everything, and the heavy-duty pain pills he swiped after his shower aren’t doing much to dull the emotional side of things.

It’s been years since Daryl has had to flip the switch and shut everything off. He feels disoriented by the sudden, echoing nothingness of his own feelings, but he figures it’s better than being a little bitch and sobbing about a few hurts.

_Stop bein’ such a pussy, Darleena. Know ya got one, but yer still mostly a man. Take yer lumps like one and shut that sissy shit down._

Merle isn’t the greatest voice of reason, but he’s better than nothing right now—better than their father—so Daryl takes the advice and turns to face Rick again when the man makes a quiet sound that’s partly frustrated and partly sad.

“We probably could if you let us try, Daryl. You know that.”

“How can you help me?” His voice is dull and listless, his fingers limp and his muscles relaxed, because he’s deeply sunken into that state of blissful emptiness, where nothing matters and his words don’t fight him. “You gonna go back in time, erase what Dwight and his buddies did? Gonna stop them from figurin’ out what I got ta offer and takin’ advantage ‘cause they could?”

“Daryl,” Rick whispers, stepping closer and reaching out for him. He smacks the hand away, watching it hit the banister and feeling nothing.

“You can’t fix this shit, Rick. You can’t, okay? You can’t give me a dick, you can’t change that they raped me, you _can’t fucking fix it_.”

And there it is—as close to the truth as Daryl will ever be able to get, and a brutal reminder he can never take back. Rick looks stunned, like the archer just punched him in the solar plexus, his breath hitching out in a quick gasp. He wants so badly to say that the look his friend gives him is one of pity, but that’s not Rick. Rick has never once pitied him, not in the years they’ve known one another since the whole world went to hell in a handbasket. He’s conspired with him, laughed with him, comforted him when he needed it, but never once has he pitied Daryl. He has been an unshakable foundation for which the hunter has been grateful to rest against, their friendship always hinting at something more although neither of them took the final leap. That fault lies with Daryl, who loves Rick too much, in all ways, to show something that shames him so wholly. He never wanted to see the look on the older man’s face when he reached in, expecting to feel a hard cock, and found a wet, dripping pussy instead.

“We can if you want it to be fixed.”

And god, isn’t that just like Rick Grimes—ignore the obvious, blatant words and get deeper into the heart of the matter. Daryl just told him that he doesn’t have a dick, that he was _raped_ , and the man ignores the stranger of those two things and goes for comforting. They’re so close now, dead blue and tortured storms meeting, and Rick looks like he would bleed his strength out and offer it to Daryl willingly if it will make anything even remotely better.

“You can’t help me, Rick,” he whispers, leaning a little closer and pressing their foreheads together for a brief moment. He wishes he was brave enough to take a kiss, but there’s been enough taking without consent the last few days, and Daryl is tired. He’s so fucking goddamn _tired_ , and he would never do that to Rick. He would never do it to anyone. Closing his eyes, he steps back and moves to pass Rick, who steps aside just like the archer knew he would, to give him what space he needs.

“I’ll never stop trying,” Rick replies, whisper-soft but as strong and unmoveable as a mountain. “I’ll be here for whatever you need, Daryl. I promise.”

Daryl should turn around, should thank Rick and take his offer, should let himself be helped the way they’re all so desperate to do, but he can’t. He just can’t. This world is too much, there’s nothing good outside the walls anymore, and Carol had it right. Any good they have, people just want. They see beauty and they have to destroy it, and Daryl’s never been a beautiful thing, but his hope was.

 _Should’a just killed them_ , he thinks, dull and empty, as he makes his way toward the deserted section of Alexandria, where the grass is green and nature is still fighting to move back in—where no one will see him slip out the back to go and do what he needs to do. He thinks of Rick, of his coldness and his ruthless efficiency, and remembers how the man was when they first met—how full of hope he was, how determined to see the good. The end of the world changes people, has changed Rick most of all. Has changed Daryl, too, and given him the courage to lay down and rest when he never had that before.

_Sorry, brother. You’re too good for this shitty life. Guess I’m just deserving of it._

 

\--

 

Carol finds the body—what’s left of it, at least. There must have been a lot of walkers—too many for one man, even if that man was Daryl. There’s blood on the knife and a bolt through a skull, but it’s the gunshot wound that makes Rick physically sick. The fact that even at the end, Daryl still had enough sense to do what was right, to ensure that there would be no possibility of any of them having to go through what Spencer did when he went out looking for his mother.

“This isn’t fucking fair,” Maggie sobs, a hand over her mouth as they all stand around the man, shielding him from the cruelty of a world that finally took too much. “We could’a helped him! He should have come to us!”

“He wouldn’t have,” Rick whispers, dull and hollow and wondering if this is what emptiness feels like—if this is what Daryl had to do to ensure he could do what needed to be done. That doesn’t make any of this fair, doesn’t change anything even a little bit, because Daryl is dead and their hearts are shattered, the pieces too small to ever be gathered up and fixed.

“He shouldn’t have gone this way. He was supposed to be the last man standing.” Glenn is gripping his gun tight enough for his fingers to be white, stone-faced and angry. Rick is angry too, underneath the numbness. It’s simmering and thickening, waiting to boil over and unleash a fury unlike anything anyone has ever seen before. “He was supposed to be the strongest one.”

“Even the strongest souls can break.” Kneeling, Rick closes those blank, unseeing eyes and brushes the hair away from Daryl’s cheeks. It sticks a little bit, the blood long-ago dried, and he almost wants to apologize even though it won’t do any fucking good.

No one says anything when he presses a kiss to the smooth, cold forehead. They watch him as he stands, his hands on his hips and his head bowed in sorrow. The weight of the world is pressing down on him again, even harder now that the one person he loved enough to share the burden with is no longer able to carry any weight. Daryl is free, lighter than he’s probably ever been allowed to be, and as much as it hurts, as much as it makes Rick angry, he’s grateful that the archer’s suffering is over.

That doesn’t mean that there isn’t going to be hell to pay. Everyone is tense and ready, jaws clenched and weapons held firmly, looking at him with unwavering devotion when he raises his head to look at each of them in turn. They’re ready, they know what’s coming, and Maggie is still crying, Carol is still red-eyed with tears dripping from her cheeks, but they’re still soldiers, still waiting for the call to war.

Rick doesn’t make them wait any longer.

“Let’s end this, once and for all. No more bullshit, no more scrambling. We find Negan, and we finish this _now_.”

He doesn’t ask for help—just crouches down and picks Daryl up like he weighs nothing, the archer’s face tucked against the side of his throat as he carries him back home. He’s going to bury Daryl, and then he’s going to unleash his fury upon Negan and his people in a way that they will never recover from, because they won’t be alive to try.

_An eye for an eye. You took something of mine, Negan. Now, I’m taking everything you have. You’ll regret the day you fucked with my family. You’ll rue the day you ever set your sights upon us._

_I’ll make sure of it._


End file.
